Life and Times of Joseph Dawson and the Blue Box
by Flatlander Jr
Summary: Multiple Doctors. An odd sound filled the air, a cross between a car engine turning over and a piece of serrated concrete dragged across a slab of marble. It was unlike any sound Joe Dawson had ever heard, and it was a sound he would never forget.
1. Chicago, 1967

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF

JOSEPH DAWSON AND THE BLUE BOX

DANIELLE FRANCES DUCREST

Disclaimer: _Doctor Who_ belongs to the BBC and others. _Highlander: The Series_ belongs to Gaumont Télévision, Rysher Entertainment and Davis/Panzer Productions. Any copyright infringements were not intended. This story was written for entertainment and not for profit.

Spoilers and Timing: General and more specific spoilers are for the _Highlander: The Series_ episodes "Brothers in Arms," "Methos," "Finale, Part 1," "Glory Days" and "Band of Brothers." There are also general spoilers for _Doctor Who_. The story takes place at various points in Joe's life and with various Doctors.

There is a cameo by an original character, Ron Calais, who first appeared in my story "An Immortal Life, Trials Past: Seacouver and Sunnydale, 1999, A Day in the Life" (though this isn't a _Buffy _or an _Angel_ crossover). A Watcher named Gina and an Immortal named Harris are mentioned, and yes, they are also allusions to "An Immortal Life." Vicky Pfeifer is the Watcher for the de Valincourts and Mara Schoner is Grayson's Watcher, according to "The New Watcher Chronicles" CD. Ian Brancroft is Darius' Watcher.

Virginia, 1954 - Tenth Doctor

Chicago, 1967 - Pick a Doctor, any Doctor

Vietnam, 1968 - Tenth Doctor

London, 1970 - Third Doctor era

Paris, 1988 - Sixth Doctor

France, 1993 - Tenth Doctor

Summary: _Highlander/Doctor Who_, multiple Doctors. An odd sound filled the air, a cross between a car engine turning over and a piece of serrated concrete dragged across a slab of marble. It was unlike any sound Joe Dawson had ever heard, and it was a sound he would never forget.

Author's Note: This was going to be a drabble series. Really, it was.

Author's Note #2: I read somewhere, years ago, that actor Jim Byrnes, who plays Joe Dawson on _Highlander_, drives a car with customized accelerator and brake pedals adapted for use by hand. If anyone has any information on this kind of car, such as whether or not it exists and what the interior looks like, please let me know. I'd really appreciate it, thanks.

Author's Note #3: (Contains Spoilers for a scene in this story; you have been warned). I have mixed feelings about the likelihood of the scene in the hospital in Vietnam where Joe contemplates suicide. I keep thinking about the _Highlander_ episode "Glory Days." In it, Joe finally admits to his high school sweetheart, Betsy, that he lost his legs decades ago in Vietnam. It takes him some time to admit it; at first, he doesn't want her to know. He still feels strongly about the loss of his legs even after all those years. Joe's prosthetics are mentioned only a handful of times throughout the series, but when they are, Joe strongly wishes he still had his legs and he sometimes feels ashamed of his prosthetics. At the same time, Joe is often portrayed as stubborn and prideful. Perhaps he did entertain the thought of suicide. Perhaps he didn't. I think it could have gone either way, based on what I've seen on the show. I don't mean to belittle this sort of thing in real life or offend people in any way. I do not condone suicide in any circumstances.

--

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Chicago, 1967

Joe's hands wrapped around the back of Betsy's prom dress as he gently pushed her against a blue wooden wall. Her breath held a hint of the strawberries she'd eaten earlier. They kissed, and he could taste the strawberries on her tongue, too. It had never been his favorite flavor, but on her, it was the perfect touch.

An odd sound filled the air, a cross between a car engine turning over and a piece of serrated concrete dragged across a slab of marble. It was so close that they pulled their lips apart.

"What is that?" she asked.

"I don't-"

His reply turned into a surprised yelp as Betsy tumbled backward with a scream. He landed on top of her.

He scrambled off of her and asked her if she was all right. He helped her get to her feet and he glanced behind her.

An empty sidewalk marked the place where a wall had been just a moment ago.


	2. Vietnam, 1968

__

Vietnam, 1968

A light was on at the nurse's station, but it was nearly pitch dark at the opposite end of the tent. Joe lay on his cot, staring up at the deep shadows in the tent's folds. It hurt to move too much. His legs ached, too, except they didn't. Phantom pains, the doctors had called them. They had said it would be best just to keep still as much as possible.

That was easy for them to say. They could walk freely about. They could run, fog, jump, stand on their tiptoes and cross their legs. Joe couldn't do any of that. He never would ever again.

His parents didn't know yet. He didn't know how he'd break it to them that their son was a damn cripple. He could just imagine the horror on Betsy's face.

He reached under the mattress near his head. His hand wrapped around the barrel of a gun. He slowly pulled it out. He couldn't even see it in the darkness, but he could feel it easily enough.

"Is that it, then? You're just going to give up?"

Joe jumped and had to bite down heard to stifle a yell of pain. "Jesus!" he hissed. He turned to the left. A black silhouette, outlined by a light somewhere outside the tent, stood under the awning of an open tent flap. Two cots filled with sleeping marines lay between Joe and the stranger. The man's voice had carried easily, but it didn't appear to have woken anyone else.

"Who're you?" asked Joe.

The stranger crossed his arms and leaned against a support pole. "Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself?" He sounded British, which only puzzled Joe further. As far as he'd known, there weren't any British troops at the MASH unit. "Who are you, Joseph Dawson? Are you someone who gives up, or are you a survivor?"

"How the hell do you know my name?"

He could practically feel the man's grin. "I know more about you than you realize. Of course, if you pull that trigger and end your life tonight, I won't ever have met you, and this little conversation of ours would never have happened. Either that or the resulting paradox would cause the universe to be ripped apart, but never mind about that. So. You've got a gun. You're hurting, and you want the pain to end. I can understand that, easily."

There was grief in his voice. Joe had heard that tone more times than he'd ever wanted to, both here and back home.

"But that's just it. It's easy to give in. It's easy not to face tomorrow. Life isn't easy, my friend. Things happen, horrible, unbearable things, and it's up to those of us who are left behind to move past it, to find a reason to keep going."

"And what reason is that?" Joe bit back angrily. "Don't know if you noticed, pal, but half of me has been blown to bits!"

The stranger was silent for a long while. "You can go on," he finally said, quietly. "If you give yourself half the chance. This isn't the end for you, Joseph Dawson. There is so much more in store for you."

Joe's hand tightened around the barrel of the gun. His finger stayed off the trigger. "What are you, my fucking fairy godmother?"

He chuckled. "Something along those lines, I guess you could say." He paused. "Give it a day."

Joe frowned. "What?"

"Just a day. If you don't find a reason to live on by tomorrow night, then do it. Kill yourself. A mere 24 hours. Think you could manage that?"

"Doctor!"

A woman screamed the word from somewhere else in the camp. The stranger's head whipped to the left.

"24 hours!" he called into the tent. He turned and rushed off, disappearing from view.

Joe stared at the spot vacated by the British man, apparently a doctor. He caught a hint of something bright blue out of the corner of his vision, and his eyes slid past the empty spot and settled a little off to the right. Peaking out behind the far corner of another tent, half within a field of light, was a tall, rectangular blue box.

He wasn't sure why he put the gun back in its hiding place. He lay awake for most of the night, replaying the conversation over and over again in his mind.

He dozed off, and when he woke again, the sky was considerably lighter. A noise he hadn't heard in a year, one so unique he'd never forgotten it, grated through the air.

He lifted his head and glanced out the tent flap. The blue box was gone.


	3. London, 1970

__

London, 1970

Even as he stepped off the plane at Heathrow, Joe still had trouble believing he was actually there. He'd been the envy of everyone back home; he was the first Dawson to seek civilian employment outside the United States in three generations. He was even walking, if hobbling on a couple of prosthetic legs could be considered walking, which he'd take over being stuck in a wheelchair any day. Here he was, on his way to the Watcher Academy in Geneva with a brief two-day layover in London.

James Harkins, head of the UK branch of the Watchers, was waiting for him outside the airport. He shook Joe's hand enthusiastically, and Joe returned it. Harkins promised to show him around London, including the Central Watcher Headquarters of the United Kingdom, located within the city.

It was after lunch when they were walking to the closest Tube entrance that Joe nearly had a heart attack. Sitting on a street corner was a very familiar blue box.

The longer he stared at it, though, the more he realized this box didn't completely resemble the one he remembered. This box was a little thinner, was painted a lighter shade of blue and had a larger light on the top. The similarities, however, were uncanny.

"You all right, Dawson?" Harkins asked.

"Yeah…yeah, I'm all right." He nodded in the box's direction. "What's that box thing over there, sir?"

The Watcher turned to look. "Oh, that? It's just a Police Box."

"A what?"

Harkins explained the functions of the Police Box as he led the way into the Tube station.

Joe saw a number of Police Boxes of varying sizes over the next two days. Most weren't in use anymore, though some were. None of them completely matched the box he'd seen that night in Vietnam or that other night in Chicago. He kept on the lookout, though. Just in case.


	4. Paris, 1988

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Paris, 1988

He was thirty-eight, but sometimes he felt like an old man. He was willing to blame every one of his gray hairs on that new recruit, Adam Pierson.

The kid was unbelievably timid when it came to socializing. He would plop himself in a corner and stay immersed in a Chronicle for hours without making a sound, and he would blush when Don complimented him on his research skills. It had taken Joe and Don Salzer two whole months just to get the guy to enter a club down the road from the bookstore.

When Pierson thought he would be late, he always called and apologized. If he needed a day off, he'd ask politely for a holiday. Today, however, he was eight hours late. Neither Joe nor Don had heard a word from him, and Don feared that something had happened to the kid. Joe was a little worried, too. Pierson had grown on him, though he never would have admitted it.

They'd split up. Dawson had already checked the club and the bookstores closest to Shakespeare & Company. He scowled down at the pavement as he made his way back. If the kid had decided just to play hooky today-not that he could see Pierson doing something like that, but it was better than the alternative-then Joe was going to bust his ass from here back to Geneva.

Paris was the same as ever, at least. Bottom floors had been transformed into modern shop fronts in five story buildings built centuries ago for other purposes, on streets adapted for use by cars, sometimes with more success than other times. Tourists seemed to be at every other turn, and businessmen and women filled the other streets.

It was a Sunday. The sidewalks outside the shops had been washed clean that morning by the shop owners, and the concrete was still damp. Down the street, an electric sign shaped like a Greek cross flashed on and off, alerting passersby that there was a pharmacie beneath its neon green glow.

Shakespeare & Company, now a couple of blocks away, was out of the way of the main tourist areas, so their clientele tended to be locals. Paris was home to people from a number of nationalities, but on this street especially, he knew that the residents spoke primarily French.

He hadn't expected to hear English coming from inside the alleyway between the perfume shop and the small bakery. He paused at the corner of the magasin de parfum and listened.

"Adam is one heavy son of a bitch," said a voice, male and American and possibly young. The exact region of the United States escaped Joe; he'd spent too much time in Europe to develop those skills.

"I quite agree." There was a grunt, and a second voice continued, "You wouldn't think it to look at him, would you?" This one was also male, older and British.

They were close, too close for Joe to risk peeking around the corner.

A third voice, also male and British, said, "Hey, be careful! You've already killed me once today. I don't think I'd fancy waking up from both a gunshot wound and a concussion."

It was Pierson's voice. He wouldn't mistake it, even if he'd never heard the kid speak in that tone before. It was equally chastising, authoritative and not amused.

Joe's stomach felt like it was dropping out beneath him. What was that about being killed? From a gunshot wound?

He was making connections he didn't want to be making.

"Not like you wouldn't deserve it," muttered the American. He was definitely way too close if Joe could hear him clearly. "Why can't he be helping us with this dead weight, anyway? I don't see why he gets to just stand there."

Joe heard a sigh. The unknown Englishman replied, "Because, my young Immortal friend, if he were to touch his younger self, it would cause a paradox with ramifications far beyond your wildest imaginings."

"I had a feeling it would be something like that."

There was a thud, much like a body being dropped carelessly on the ground.

"Hey!" said Pierson. "Come now, Richie. Is that any way to treat the man who just saved your life?"

"It sure made me feel better, Adam," Richie, the American, replied.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said the unnamed Englishman. "Come on, into the TARDIS. Now that we've delivered your younger self to his proper time, we really should be off."

That was when Joe heard the sound. It had been so long since the last time that he'd begun to think he'd imagined it, but there was no way he could have dreamed up a sound like that.

He peered into the alley, and his hopes died. It was empty.

He had to be going crazy. That was the only explanation he could think of. He was losing his mind.

Someone groaned in the vicinity of his cane. Pierson was sprawled against the wall of the perfume store. His clothes were torn, and his hair and face were covered in dirt. He wore a coat, which was only sensible against the chill. That was all it was, sensible.

The more Joe tried to tell himself that, the less he believed it.

Pierson's eyes opened and shut again. They snapped open, and Pierson sat up quickly. "Joe?" He looked around and frowned. "How the bloody hell did I get here?"

"You tell me." God, what was going on? Joe hoped Pierson could tell him something, because he didn't have a clue. One minute, Pierson had sounded like he was in charge; now, he was confused and, if his widened eyes were any judge, slipping into shock. "Can you get up?"

Pierson nodded and rubbed his face. "Give me a minute."

He slowly rose to his feet, using the wall as a support. Joe leaned a hand against the wall and helped Pierson steady himself.

"Thanks, Joe." Pierson patted down his pockets and pulled out his wallet, checking it over. His frown deepened. "Looks like the bastards didn't take anything valuable. That's a bit odd, don't you think?"

Joe made a disbelieving sound and shook his head. He studied the younger-looking man. Pierson's sweater was intact, and Joe couldn't see a hint of blood anywhere on the man's dark jeans and overcoat. In other words, there wasn't any sign that Pierson had been a victim of a gunshot wound. On the other hand, he looked just like the victim of a mugging. "What can you remember?"

Pierson ran a hand through his hair. He was shaking; the shock was setting in. "I'm not entire sure. I was walking to the bookstore, and then these two men grabbed me and dragged me in here." He shrugged and, wincing, rubbed a spot on his head. "They must have knocked me out. The next thing I knew, you were standing over me."

He certainly sounded sincere enough. Joe sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Alright. Let's head back to the bookstore. When Don gets back, he can take you to see a doctor."

Pierson insisted he was fine, but he followed Joe back to Shakespeare & Company. Joe decided to keep an eye on him. In the meantime, Joe would see if he could find anything on a mysterious British citizen, an American named Richie and a Police Box that appeared in random places.


	5. Seacouver, 1989

January 8, 1989

Joe,

Hey. I haven't seen you in Paris for a while. Has MacLeod permanently settled in Seacouver? If he has, try to cross the pond for a visit every now and again, anyway. Poker night just won't be the same with just Gina, Don, Adam and me. I'll try to stop by the next time I'm visiting my relatives, but Washington State isn't exactly on the way from Paris to Kentucky.

Anyway, I remember that you sent out a call last year for information about Police Boxes turning up in odd places. I hope you're still looking for info, because I have found something juicy.

I don't know if you heard, but Rachel Hartfield lost a challenge a few months back. I've been stuck in Research ever since until a field assignment opens up. I know both Pfeifer andMitchell are looking to retire soon, so I'll probably be replacing one of them. I don't know to whom I'd rather be assigned, the de Valincourts or Harris. We'll see what happens in a year.

Most of my time lately has been spent trying to clean up some tricky spots in Hartfield's Chronicle. There are whole sections missing in her Chronicle where there shouldn't be a page out of place.

For a few years in the fifties, it was as if she just disappeared off the face of the planet. One day, she went to work, and the next, she didn't. Her Watcher at the time made inquiries at the local morgues, but a body was never brought in matching her description, so Headquarters asked him to stay in the area in case she showed again. She didn't reappear for two whole years. When she did, she actually walked into her old job and seemed surprised that she wasn't employed there anymore.

Anyway, to cut to the chase, when Hartfield returned, her Watcher reported seeing her with a man several times. He never got close enough to hear Hartfield and her friend, so I can't tell you what the stranger's accent was like, but I do know that he had messy brown hair, brown eyes, was about 6'3" and was always seen wearing a brown pinstripe suit and light brown overcoat.

I've attached to this letter the original report along with some black & white photos, including a few where Hartfield and her friend are leaning against what looks like a British Police Box. Talk about a Police Box showing up in the wrong place; the photographs were taken in a town in Virginia.

Don't be a stranger. Look me up if you're ever in Paris.

Calais

--

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Seacouver, 1989

Joe pressed down on the brake with one hand, put the van in park and killed the engine. A block ahead of him, Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel stepped out of the Highlander's car and walked up to the front entrance of their antiques store. Noel looked agitated about something, probably something to do with her colleague's work at the art exhibit the couple had just attended. She said something and MacLeod pulled her in for a quick kiss on the forehead. She smiled slightly and pushed him toward the door.

Joe was glad that the Scot had found someone he was so obviously happy with. It reminded him of his sister's voice on the phone, speaking excitedly about her latest date with James. Some people had all the luck.

MacLeod had been Joe's assignment for over twelve years now. Sometimes, Joe felt every one of those long afternoons spent on stakeouts in his car, in restaurants, in museums and at auctions, just observing the Highlander go about his everyday life. Joe didn't mind Watching MacLeod, not at all, though it was often monotonous. Occasionally, the Immortal would face a challenge, but those were few and far between. Some Watchers were assigned to bastards that did horrible, nasty things to mortals and Immortals alike on a daily basis. Joe counted himself lucky that all three of his assignments had been decent people. He prayed everyday that the Highlander didn't lose his head any time soon; good men like him came in short supply.

His life as Duncan MacLeod's Watcher was simple and routine. This puzzle involving the Police Box, meanwhile, was anything but.

He read Ron Calais' letter a second time and dumped the contents of the manila envelope onto his lap. His breath caught at the sight of the first photograph.

He recognized Rachel Hartman (Deceased), born in 1823 CE, some-little-town-called-he-couldn't-remember-what, Virginia, First Death November 22, 1852 CE, last place of residence Paris, France. The photo was taken from down the street. Hartman's back was partially turned to the camera. Her right hand rested on her hip, and the other pointed at a man leaning against the side of a very familiar Police Box. His arms were crossed, and he looked annoyed.

Tracking down information on the Police Box had been next to impossible. Joe had searched within the Chronicles and without. This was the only lead he had, and Ron was right. It was juicy.

He studied Hartman's friend. The man he'd talked to that night in Vietnam was about the same height. There was no way of telling if it was the same man, but Joe was willing to bet it was. It only brought to mind more questions.


	6. France, 1993

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France, 1993

It was raining, and not a single speck of dirt on the road leading away from the main gate had avoided turning to mud. The van's tires slid with difficulty over the road. The occasional puddles of water didn't refute Joe's belief that he would either lose control of the vehicle or get stuck in a pothole.

He pulled over onto the grass and killed the engine with a sigh and a curse. He glared at the rain pounding at his windshield. He was some distance away from the Watcher Headquarters of Western Europe. He was surrounded by grass and forest. The world outside didn't have a spot of color in it except ugly shades of gray and brown.

He missed Seacouver. They sometimes got rainstorms as bad as this, but at least he didn't get stuck in one in the middle of nowhere. Not as often, anyway. MacLeod had lived in Washington State for years with Tessa Noel, and Joe had believed that the Highlander wouldn't be going anywhere else for decades. If it weren't for headhunting Immortals, and one headhunting Immortal in particular that MacLeod had faced recently, the Highlander, Noel and their young friend, Richie Ryan, would have stayed in Seacouver.

It had been a month since MacLeod's family had made the move, and Joe had, of course, come with them. So far, he hadn't really enjoyed it. He hadn't practiced his French during his time in the States, and it had gone a little rusty. Paris was both alike and unalike what he remembered, which was only to be expected when half a decade had passed. That knowledge didn't make him feel any better whenever he got lost or went looking for an establishment that was no longer there. Headquarters hadn't moved, at least.

His legs were killing him. That was the price he paid for getting absorbed in a chronicle in the research section and not even noticing he'd been standing for hours until his legs started to cramp. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd sat down immediately, but then his supervisor had appeared and started talking to him about Joe's annual report, which was due in a couple of weeks.

His supervisor was a bastard. Joe had no problem accepting that. James Harkins made for an excellent tour guide of London and the London offices, but he'd always been a stickler for rules even before he'd been promoted to Assistant Director of Western Europe. Joe had been a Watcher for twenty-three years, but Harkins still thought of him as a young kid wet behind the ears. Every time they spoke, Joe wanted to wipe off the condescending asshole's concerned expression.

After Harkins had left, Joe had headed straight to his van, hoping to get off the grounds before he decided Joe needed to be reminded of something else.

The rain increased its attack against his car. He couldn't see anything beyond the water streaming down the windshield now. He'd been sitting there for fifteen minutes, and it looked like he'd be there for a long time to come. With a sigh, he pulled up one of his pant legs. It was a cramped space, but he might just have enough room to get his thighs loose of the prosthetics. He'd worry about getting them back on later.

There was a knock on the passenger side door. Joe jumped and banged his head against the wheel. The horn blasted into the rain.

Someone was standing outside the passenger door. He pressed his face against the glass. Joe reached over and unlocked the door, and the other man quickly slipped inside.

"Adam, what are you doing?" Joe demanded. Adam Pierson was quite the picture. He was completely drenched. Water poured down his face, and more water dripped from his hair and his clothes to soak the seat and floor.

Adam glared out at the rain. "I'm working on my Gene Kelly impression, what do you think I'm dong?" He slumped back against the seat, sighed and gave Joe a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Joe. This just really isn't my day."

"Tell me about it." Joe stared out at the rain. He wasn't about to take off his legs now. The kid would probably try to help him, and that would just be embarrassing. "What were you doing, then?"

Adam rubbed his face. "My car broke down. I was walking back to Headquarters when the rain turned into a downpour. The piece of junk should have come with warning labels: do not drive in the country, do not drive in populated areas, do not drive in rain, do not drive period." His eyes flicked from the special controls of Joe's car to Joe's face. "What about you?"

Joe gestured to the window. "Can't see worth a damn in this. We'll have to wait until it lightens up."

"Great."

Adam shivered. Joe turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the heater. "Get that trench coat off before you freeze to death."

The younger man offered another sheepish smile and did what he was told. "Thanks." He took off his shoes and socks, as well, and Joe envied him the extra room on the passenger side.

He didn't look any better in a drenched sweater and jeans. He must have been freezing in those, too, but he didn't take off the sweater. Joe didn't think he'd ever seen the younger man without a sweater, though he did wear a long-sleeve shirt once. Adam never went anywhere without that trench coat, either.

A few years ago, after that weird incident in the alley, Joe had kept his eye on that trench coat, but he couldn't shake off the thought that any strange bulges he might have seen in it were figments of his imagination. He'd certainly doubted what he'd overheard in that alley plenty of times in the last five the years. Even now, he wasn't sure what had really happened.

"How's the old man?" he asked.

Adam paused. "What?"

"Methos."

For a long, awkward moment, all Adam did was stare at him. Adam blinked, and the moment was gone. He smiled and shrugged. "Oh, well, I doubt he's getting any younger. As to his whereabouts…I think I may have found a trace of him in Venice in the fourth century, but who knows where the old legend is now."

Joe nodded. He didn't mind doing occasional research. It could be a nice change from his normal routine. He didn't want to do it full time, though. He'd go nuts if his assignment was an alleged five thousand year old man whose last official sighting was in the fifth century. Adam and Don both seemed to enjoy the chase, so good for them. "Hope it works out."

Adam dropped his jacket in the back. Joe might have heard a solid thump as the material hit the cloth seat, but it was impossible to tell over the rain. He told himself to give it a rest.

"So, what brings the Head of North America to Watcher HQ?"

"MacLeod's moved back here," Joe replied. "There's no telling how long, but I'm helping Mara Schoner close Grayson's file, since MacLeod won the challenge. Mara overheard them mention a past meeting that isn't referenced in MacLeod's or Grayson's profiles, so I promised I'd see if I could track down any stray records while I was over here."

Adam nodded. It was traditional for the Watcher of the victor to help the other Watcher tie up loose ends in the deceased Immortal's chronicle. "Any luck?"

He shifted in his seat. The rain was lessening somewhat, but it was still pretty bad. "Yeah, found a reference in Darius' Chronicle. Thought I'd get in touch with Ian Bancroft, see if he knows where I can find the entry. By the way, Don's hosting a poker game this weekend at Shakespeare & Company. You interested?"

Adam gave him a look. "As if Don would let me get out of it. I swear, the only reason he lets me hang around is so I can be his servant boy."

The rain was clearing, finally, though a drizzle remained to fill the dips in the road that hadn't overflowed.

Joe chuckled. "Hey, if Don's putting you to work, then you prob-"

The car rocked as something slammed into the hood, something human shaped. The dull light within the car became pitch darkness. His eyes hadn't had time to adjust before the figure slid off the hood and out of sight onto the mud in front of the car.


	7. In the Freezing Rain

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In the Freezing Rain

"Shit!" Joe sat forward. "Did you see that?"

Adam muttered something and slid out of the car. Joe followed more slowly and reached the front of the car in time to see Adam help the newcomer to her feet. The rain had lessened, but Joe's hair, face and clothes were soaked within moments. Adam just looked even more drenched than before.

"Mademoiselle, ça va?" Adam asked.

"I'm okay." She cradled her head in her hands. "Oh, my head. He is so dead when this is over."

Joe exchanged a confused look with Adam.

She spoke the Queen's English. Muddy brown and red rivulets trickled over her dark-skinned arms. Her hair, pulled in a bun, was matted and streaked with fresh mud, and her jacket and jeans had seen better days.

"You sure you're all right?" Joe asked.

"Yes, I'm-" Her head shot up and her eyes widened. "Joe! Finally!" She laughed. "God, I had to make four jumps just to find you."

"Do you…know her, Joe?" Adam asked. His hands disappeared into his jean pockets as his shoulders hunched. His inherent shyness around strangers was coming to the fore, rendering him five times more timid than he was with Joe.

Joe sighed. "Can't say I've had the pleasure."

She gave him the biggest grin he'd seen all day. "Oh, I'm Martha. Martha Jones." She turned. "And it's…Adam…Pierson, isn't it?"

Adam's eyebrows rose even higher. Then, to Joe's surprise and approval, some steel appeared in his expression. "How do you know my name?"

Jones winced. "It's a bit of a long story, really. And it'll have to wait. Have either of you got the time?"

She paused a second. When a reply didn't come fast enough for her, she grabbed Joe's left arm and pushed up the sleeve.

"Hey!"

Joe's tattoo, the symbol of the Watcher organization, was visible around his watchband. He wasn't about to point it out to her, and in any case, she didn't appear to have noticed.

She stared at his watch. "We need to get out of here. We really need to get out of here right now."

"What are you-"

A note pitched so high caused his eardrums to ring painfully. He heard it clearly over the noise of the rain…and there was no rain. At least, there wasn't any moving rain.

Joe focused until his eyes crossed. He blinked and looked again.

A tiny raindrop, just a little drop of water, was suspended in the air. There were more raindrops hanging in nothing, and they were everywhere. The rain had frozen in the air.

Curiosity was a trait that had landed him with a job in the Watcher Organization. It was what made him move his arm into the path of motionless drops. They splattered against his jacket and bare hand with as much force as a raindrop in motion. It was as if, at any moment, the drops might unfreeze and resume falling at the same speed as before.

It was impossible. "What the hell is going-"

Joe stopped and stared, again. Adam wasn't moving. He was as still as a statue. He didn't blink. Hell, he didn't even appear to be breathing.

Before, Joe had been too distracted by Jones to pay close attention to his fellow Watcher's expression. The frozen Englishman's feelings were clearly visible. There was the wariness Joe had noted before…but there was none of the uncertainty, the mouse-like qualities Adam often portrayed.

_Your mask is showing_, Joe thought with a frown, _or maybe I'm so rattled I'm seeing things_.

He'd rather sort out the mystery that was Adam Pierson, possible Immortal-it was a normal pastime for him, one he'd had for years-than sort out why the world seemed to have halted like a scene on a video tape put on pause.

"Oh, this is just perfect," said Jones.

Joe jumped. She wasn't frozen. She was still holding onto his wrist and he hadn't realized.

He shook himself free. "What is going on?"

She was looking around, not with surprise and fear but anxiety and worry. He was willing to bet she was behind this. He just needed to work out how.

She shook her head. "There isn't any time to explain."

"Like hell-"

"Shh." She scanned the trees, the road, the muddy puddles. "Do you hear that?"

The absence of motion in their surroundings meant an absence of sound. He heard, distinctly, the sound of scuttling. It was no louder than a faint scratching noise, but it quickly increased in pitch until he could hear what must have been a multitude of limbs kicking up leaves and moving aside blades of grass, of hard pinchers clicking against each other. The sounds were everywhere, or seemed to be.

Jones shouted something, but he couldn't hear her; the scuttling sounds were too loud. Joe pressed his hands against his ears, but he couldn't shut out the noise. Whatever was making the racket, it sounded as if it was right on top of him, Jones and Adam, but all he saw was a frozen landscape.

Jones pulled Joe's arm down and looped her arm through his.

"What are you doing?" Joe couldn't hear his own voice.

Jones yelled something in reply. He watched her lips. She was telling him to hold him.

"Hold on to wha-"

She jerked him after her as she stepped toward Adam and grabbed a handful of Adam's shirt in a tight fist. Before Joe had a chance to correct his balance, Jones pressed a button on a device she wore on her wrist. Their surroundings changed, again.

As if he wasn't spooked enough already, the French countryside faded away-sights, then sounds, then feeling. Black spots crowded his vision, and his heart nearly stopped as he thought that the thing making the noise had arrived. Black dissipated into red and blue, and Jones tightened her grip on his arm as the memories came.


	8. Into the Vortex

__

Into the Vortex

They were travelling down a tunnel, or possibly a funnel, or maybe they weren't moving at all and their surroundings were moving instead. Any point of reference he could have used was gone. The space beneath his feet was not the ground, the swirls of color over his head was not the sky.

Adam was still frozen. Jones's hold on them both never loosened, but her eyes were clenched tight.

Blue and red…swirls, clouds, things he couldn't understand that his mind rebelled against understanding, passed by in a blur. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't process what he was experiencing, so instead, his mind sought refuge in more familiar environments stored in his memory.

Scenes from his past, usually no more vivid or overwhelming than any of his other thoughts, flooded his senses. It was as if he were living those scenes from his life a second time. He could feel Jones's fingers digging into his arm, he could still see blues and reds flash by before his eyes, he knew he was standing upright, but at the same time…

__

…A patched hole in the olive green cot dug into his back. He wanted to shift position, but he couldn't get his feet to cooperate and help shift his weight. He couldn't feel his legs much at all, just pain, dulled by drugs but not very well; it was wearing off. He could get a new shot if he called for the nurse, but he couldn't see or hear anyone near his cot.

It was mid morning, and the MASH unit was busy with activity**. **He could hear the jeeps driving by the hospital tent. In his thoughts, a tall, black silhouette and a half-seen blue box mixed with images of his CO. It didn't make any sense. Blue boxes didn't just disappear. Andrew Cord was dead. Joe had seen Cord get hit by enemy fire. Even so, Joe knew that Cord was the one who'd carried him to the camp. Then Cord had left him there and disappeared and no one would believe him.

That was a few days ago. Last night, he'd seriously considered blowing his own brains out-which, now that morning had come, scared him shitless, even if he still had no idea what he was going to do without legs. His fingers had wrapped around the handle of the gun a few times since morning had come, and every time, he'd had to pull his hand away because he was shaking too much.

Everything the strange Englishman had said the night before made less and less sense the more Joe went over it in his mind. The stranger had talked as if they'd met before or were going to meet in the future. It was another thing Joe had always believed was impossible. Time travel was science fiction. So was invulnerability. He wanted some answers, and he wanted them soon, or he was going to lose his mind.

A chair scraped across the wood floor. A man he'd never seen before, another one, took a seat beside the cot.

He didn't know it yet, but he was about to get some of his answers. Before the year was over, he'd have a tattoo on his wrist that would match the one worn by this newcomer.

Blue and red lights danced around him as the scene shifted. Someone was screaming. He thought it was Martha, but he wasn't sure. Before he could sort it out, he sank back into the past.

__

…Joe spent a Saturday going from police station to public library, looking for information on Police Public Call Boxes. He had so little to go on, but he knew in his guts that he was onto something big. He'd known not to forget about Cord's return from the dead, and it had landed him with a job and a new direction. He hoped this mystery wouldn't end badly.

How much time, exactly, had he spent searching for a doctor and a specific Police Box? It couldn't have been that much, but the memories didn't seem to run out.

Another time, another country. He would have thought that when his life flashed before his eyes it would've flashed by in chronological order. Apparently not.

__

…The young man was fifteen or so years younger than Joe, really, but Joe took one look at his modest smile and hunched shoulders and labeled him as an innocent kid. Joe had been just like him, once upon a time. Thank God Joe wasn't anymore.

"Joe, I'd like you to meet Adam Pierson." Don was as excited as when he was investigating a lead on the whereabouts of Methos. "You ought to see his qualifications. He's studying linguistics and anthropology, and he likes to do research."

Joe couldn't help smiling. Don had found his dream assistant.

Pierson smiled nervously. He took Joe's proffered hand, squeezed too hard, gave Joe's hand a jarring shake and let his hand drop back to his side. "Pleased to meet you." He nearly stuttered on the 'p.'

Don gave Joe an apologetic shrug over Pierson's shoulder, but his excitement didn't dim. Joe sighed and made a mental list of all the things they could try to make the kid relax a bit, if only because he knew Don would talk him into helping.

…James Harkins was furious. "Exactly what do you think you were doing at the police station last Saturday, Dawson? Surprised I know about it? We've got a Watcher planted at that station. Now, explain this sudden obsession to me about Police Boxes, in detail. You'd better have a good story."

The blue and red lights shot by so fast that they melted into a swirl of purples and grays. There was a roaring in his ears until his ears popped, and then there was just pain.

__

… "A mere 24 hours. Think you could manage that?"

…James Horton's grin was huge. He slapped Joe on the back so hard Joe nearly lost his balance. "Congrats, Joe! You've got your first assignment, you lucky bastard!"

…The steadying weight of the wall against his knuckles disappeared, and he felt the shocking sensation of falling as he and Betsy tumbled to the sidewalk.

…"Oh, that? It's just a Police Box."

He was falling. His cheek scraped a rough surface, jarring him out of his memories and back into present in time to watch as the surface, a column or wall or something, slid away. The side of his head bounced off the floor, and pain exploded in his head.


	9. In the TARDIS

In the TARDIS

That was going to bruise. Hitting a hard floor with his head really hadn't been on his list of things to do.

The blue and red tunnel had disappeared. He could make out the shapes of green and gold objects, but his vision was out of focus and crowded with black spots. His skull rang from the impact with the floor, and more pain blossomed from the scratch on his cheek. He figured that this time, his surroundings were still and he was the one swaying.

He sat up, blinked a few dozen times and nearly fell over again. He grabbed blindly for something that would hold his weight. His fingers wrapped around a surface covered with little, hard things that dug into his skin. It was probably what had given him a scraped cheek. He felt like he was going to fall over again if he let go, so he held on.

Something knelt down in front of him. "Easy," it said in Jones's voice.

Joe blinked a few more times, and finally, everything came into focus.

Jones was crouched down on one side of him. She appeared to be the same; soaked, but looking healthy. She should at least have had a headache. That would have been a little fairer.

He was holding onto at a wall of coral or a piece of furniture or something…that extended up to a curving ceiling. It was a support strut. Boy, if this was the state his thought processes had sunk to, he was in a lot of trouble.

Jones held up a finger in his vision and moved it from side to side. He tracked it and she put down her hand. She gave him a smile. "Sorry about that. Vortex travel can be pretty hard if you're not used to it." She raised her voice. "With or without a capsule."

"Martha!" This voice was male, British and whining. It belonged to someone behind Jones. "Do you mind? I'm trying to shake Vordren off the TARDIS."

She frowned and turned away from Joe. Joe would have liked a view of the speaker, but she was blocking the way.

"Couldn't we just enter the Vortex?" she asked.

"No, no, no, no," her friend replied. "The Vordren have no concept of the Time Vortex."

"But…" She shook her head and sprayed Joe with water. Not that it made any difference, since he was still wet.

"…They can travel through time," she said.

"Oh, yes, and quite brilliantly, too. Their theories of time are founded on other principles-completely off base, certainly, but still brilliant. They already have considerable knowledge of how to manipulate time; discovering the Time Vortex would be like the Dark acquiring the Signs from Will Stanton. Oh, no, wait, that's _The Dark is Rising_."

Joe rubbed his temple with one hand to soothe the headache that was still there "What are you talking about? What is this place? Who are you people?"

"You're in the TARDIS." Jones moved a little to the side and pointed over her shoulder. "That's the Doctor."

The stranger appeared around the glass column and flashed him a huge smile. "Hello! Nice to meet you at last, Joseph Dawson!"

"You!"

It was him, the man from the photos Ron Calais had sent Joe four years ago. Unlike Ron's description, the man called the Doctor wasn't wearing brown pinstripes. Instead, he was wearing blue pinstripes. It was an ugly blue, too, and it looked completely out of place in this environment of eerie greens and soft golds.

After all this time, Joe had begun to believe he'd never actually track the guy down. Those photographs had been taken in the 1950s, and here the man was, still looking the same. Joe had received, finally, conclusive evidence that the man was an Immortal.

Joe's reaction to being in the same room as an Immortal-an Immortal who knew he was there, which was even worse-made him feel a little awe and a bit of nervousness. However, sore and aching muscles and anger quickly overcame any other feelings, and he decided he didn't care. He wanted answers. He'd have better luck getting them if he wasn't still on the floor.

He gripped the support and planted his cane firmly against the floor to lever himself up. He was still a bit unsteady and nearly lost his balance.

"Woah!" Jones reached out for him.

Joe scowled and shook her off. She held up her hands and backed away a step. Once the room had stopped spinning again, Joe forced himself upright.

"Who the hell are you people?" He'd asked it before, but it was a question worth repeating, seeing as how it really hadn't been answered. "What kind of answer is, 'You're in the TARDIS?'" He glared at Jones and at the Doctor.

"Martha?" The Doctor asked as he returned his attention to the instruments on the console.

Jones held up her hands in a placating gesture. "I know this is confusing, but I swear, we're just trying to help. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you-"

"Really. And here would be?"

He'd never been in a room like this. There was a hum, like machinery, in the background. The room was almost spherical. Thin, curving wall panels covered in hexagonal coffers met at the center of the ceiling.

A metal mesh walkway four feet off the ground traveled the length of the walls. On the far side of the room was an open doorway with wooden frame painted a familiar blue. The doorframe was incongruous with the rest of the place, especially since the corridor beyond it appeared to have the same design as this room.

A ramp ascended two feet to a second, circular metal mesh platform at the center of the room. A couple of railings and three more support struts surrounded the platform, and at its center was a circular table or console. Wires illuminated by a green glow hung down from underneath, and a glass column rose from the middle of the console to the curving ceiling. Cables connected the top of the column to the console.

"It's the TARDIS," Jones repeated. "It stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space. It's a space ship."

Joe laughed. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Would that we were, Joe!" said the Doctor. He moved hurriedly around the console, pressing buttons and pulling levers.

"Where have you taken Adam-" Joe caught sight of the floor behind him. He should have noticed the other man sooner. Adam lay unconscious less than two feet away.

Joe let out a breath only when he saw Adam's chest rise and fall.

Jones stepped around Joe and knelt next to Adam. She placed two fingers on his neck.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Joe wished he had his gun or some sort of weapon. Too many things were happening at once, and he didn't know either of these people.

She held up her hands. "Nothing. I'm a medical doctor. I'm just…checking to make sure he's all right."

The room started to shake.

"Hold on!" the Doctor said. "Several hundred Vordren have latched onto the outside of the TARDIS. They're trying to-"

Joe grabbed the support strut just in time.

The room pitched to one side. Joe closed his eyes as the room shifted in the other direction. It settled upright within the space of a second, but it was long enough to make him nauseous.

The room jolted violently. Joe lost his hold on the support and began to fall. He ended up on his ass, again. That was another thing he was really getting tired of. Plus, he'd scraped his hand against the coral.

Jones leaned across Adam as the room bounced and shook like a plane flying through turbulence.

With a groan, the room began to tilt to one side.

Joe reached for the support and missed. "Shit." He began to slide backwards.

The angle wasn't very steep, and he moved slowly enough to grab onto any passing handholds. It was too bad there weren't any.

He slammed into Jones and knocked her into Adam. She yelped.

Joe's progress wasn't halted for long. The floor became steeper with every passing movement. The metal walls screamed in protest, but the structure held as the room titled at a forty-five angle.

Joe, Jones and Adam all went sliding down it. They accelerated as the angle of the floor became steeper. They didn't stop until they hit the wall.

The room stilled with one last tremor. It was sideways, but the key detail Joe focused on was the lack of movement.

The room had turned an entire ninety degrees. The floor now had a role as a wall, while some of the panels that had served as walls now fulfilled a life as the floor.

Joe kept his eyes closed as he waited for the dizziness to go away. He could feel nothing but air on his face, while he was lying on something uncomfortable.

Jones coughed, and Joe moved with each cough.

"Martha!" The Doctor yelled down.

Underneath Joe, trapped between him and Adam, Jones called up between coughs. "I'm fine."

Joe pushed against someone's limbs and rolled off the top of the pile. He landed on his back. Instead of the uncomfortable feeling of metal panels with indentations he'd expected, the material beneath his back was smooth. He turned his head to the side for a better look and opened his eyes. The surface beneath him was wood painted blue, like the doorway now located in the ceiling.

The Doctor had managed to avoid falling by climbing on top of the console. He was cursing. Joe didn't recognize the language, but he knew a string of curses when he heard one. He appeared to be uninjured.

Great. Next time, Joe was climbing on top of the console while the guy who couldn't die could get tossed into walls.

He didn't think anything was broken. He could feel his arms, his back, his chest and his thighs. All of his limbs complained, loudly, about the treatment his body had just gone through.

Jones rolled off of Adam and leaned over on hands and knees, coughing.

"You all right?" the Doctor asked.

Jones nodded as she sucked in a breath.

Adam had been at the bottom of the pile. Joe sat up for a better look of his friend.

The other Watcher wasn't moving, which meant he was still unconscious…unless he wasn't.

"No." Perhaps it was just his unusual vantage point. It couldn't be what it seemed to be from where he was.

He looked up at the console. Maybe the Doctor could tell if Adam was breathing.

The Doctor's expression was grim. Joe followed his line of sight down to a few feet away. The Doctor appeared to be looking at Adam.

"Adam," Joe said, hoping to stir the other Watcher. "Adam!"

Adam Pierson didn't move. His neck was at a wrong angle. He wasn't breathing. He was dead.

Joe closed his eyes as the reality sunk in. "No." Adam was a good friend who hadn't deserved this, not at such a young age.

There was still a chance that his suspicions were correct, that Adam was an Immortal. Joe counted down the secondsas he waited and clung onto that hope.

If Adam was Immortal, Joe decided in that moment that he wouldn't care. He just wanted the other man to be alive again. He'd seen too many good men die.

Joe had Watched three Immortals, all of different ages. He knew the approximate amount of time it took to heal from a broken neck. It varied a little in each person, but not by much.

It should happen any second now. "Come on, come on," Joe muttered.

Adam's head moved. Bons snapped as vertebrae realigned. Joe nearly had a heart attack.

Adam's eyes snapped open. His chest rose off the floor as he gasped air into empty lungs. He collapsed bodily back to the floor and groaned.

Joe laughed as he, too, collapsed. He was right. Adam was an Immortal.

Once he'd figured out everything else that was going on, and assuming they got out of here, then he'd think about the consequences.


	10. Deeper into the Box

Author's Note #4: Alright. So I've gone back and watched bits of "Brothers in Arms" again. That's the _Highlander _episode with the flashback that reveals how Joe lost his legs and learned about Immortals and the Waters. It's been a while since I last saw it, and I realize I've got some details wrong about Joe's time in Vietnam. I'll fix them in editing. In fact, as a fair warning, all of these chapters could be subjected to editing at any time, either light editing or heavy editing.

Author's Note #5: I am not a scientist. Looking for proper science? Send me a review or e-mail detailing what I got wrong, and I'll do my best to fix it.

*****

_Deeper into the Box_

"Joe?"

Joe stopped laughing.

"What's going-" The Immortal's eyes widened. He rubbed his healed neck. A whole range of emotions flickered through his eyes, from surprise, fear, embarrassment, annoyance, regret and, at last, resignation. He sighed and sat up.

Joe slowly stood, using the floor-turned-wall for support. He stared at Adam and was about to say something, though he wasn't sure what, when Jones stepped between them. She helped Adam get to his feet and whispered something in his ear. Joe thought he heard her say his name and frowned at the back of her head.

"You all right, Adam?" the Doctor asked.

Adam glanced up. His eyes widened as he took in his surroundings. "What's happened to the TARDIS?"

"You're been here before?" Joe blurted.

Adam winced. "Ah…"

He couldn't believe this. "Any other secrets, Adam?"

Jones glanced from one man to the other with a worried expression.

A dozen emotions passed through Adam's eyes. "Joe-"

"All right!" the Doctor yelled. Joe's ears rang. "If everyone could lean against the floor…wall…um, the floor-that's-temporarily-become-a-wall, I can see about straightening us out. Come on, shift!"

Jones stayed between them as the three of men moved to the floor-that-had-temporarily-become-a-wall. Joe didn't want a mediator. He glared over her shoulders at Adam. "You know these people?"

"Excuse me!" The Doctor gave them a look worthy of a disapproving first grade teacher. "Backs against the wall!"

Joe made a face but did as instructed. Adam wouldn't meet his eyes.

Adam cracked his neck. Standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Joe heard it easily.

"Make sure your back is firmly touching the floor…wall…thing," said the Doctor. The possible Immortal wrapped his arms around the glass column and reached almost completely around it for a lever. He pushed the lever, and his body slid to the left. His grip tightened on the column. Joe winced, not just in sympathy but also in the hope that the guy didn't drop straight on him.

With a sigh, Joe shifted his weight and leaned as heavily as he could on the floor that had become a wall when the room had fallen on its side. He was tired, his legs hurt, and he was not looking forward to this. "Just get on with it," he muttered.

"On the count of three!" the Doctor said.

Martha leaned forward and smiled at Joe from Adam's other side. "Don't worry. It'll be fine."

"One, two, four-"

Joe gave the oblivious man another look of disbelief. He was starting to feel permanently baffled around the Doctor.

The Doctor continued, "No, hold on-three!"

The room began to tilt again, but slowly, about the speed of a reclining bed. More and more of Joe's weight shifted to his back as the wall resumed its original purpose as a floor. He felt a little disoriented from the process.

With a slight lurch, the room seemed to lock into its proper place. Joe's feet rested on the blue wooden doors beneath the backward 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX' ledger.

He went through the laborious process of standing up, again. Adam held out a hand. Joe glanced at it but took it. Adam gave him a sheepish smile that he chose to ignore.

"Are they gone?" Martha asked.

"No. The Vordren have us surrounded, though they're not doing much beyond sitting at the moment. The TARDIS is still on its side. I've just fixed the center of gravity in the interior."

"So." The Doctor rubbed his hands together. "An explanation!"


	11. New World

Author's Note #5: Flashbacks-they're traditional on _Highlander_, but how to integrate them into a story? Should I cut frequently within a scene from the present to the past? Should I have an entire scene set only in the past, then return to the future? I've mingled the two scenes together. If you'd like to read them separately, let me know and I'll re-post this part as two separate parts.

*****

_New World_

As the Doctor, Martha and even Adam began to answer his long unanswered questions, Joe found himself stifling a laugh at the strangeness of it all. He was being told the most cock-and-bull story he'd ever heard in his life, and it made so much sense it scared him.

They didn't realize how much it reminded him of that day in the army hospital in Vietnam.

_"Joe," a voice said behind him, probably another in a line of nurses and doctors and far too close._

_Joe froze. Cheeks burning, he shoved the gun hastily under the pillow. He didn't turn over onto his back to greet the newcomer. It hurt too much to move. Couldn't he get a few minutes without being bothered by someone? He didn't need anyone seeing just how much of an idiot he was. "Go to hell."_

_The hesitant way the stranger spoke next made Joe wonder if he'd seen the gun. "If you've got a minute, I wouldn't mind talking to you." The stranger paused. His accent was British._

_Joe scowled into his pillow. Joe'd had his fill of strange Brits who wanted to chat. The strange man who said he knew him and told him to hold out for one day had been by and gone the night before._

_The stranger continued, "I came to talk about Sergeant Cord."_

"Right now, Joseph Dawson, you happen to be standing in the Console Room of my magnificently wonderful ship. She's called the TARDIS, Time-"

"-and Relative Dimensions in Space." Adam said.

The Doctor pouted like he was eight years old. Joe stared at him.

"Adam!" the Doctor whined.

Adam looked innocent, but didn't act sheepish enough to indicate he really was sorry. Martha hid her laughter behind her hand.

_Joe closed his eyes and sighed. "I wasn't out of my head…" He turned and glared. "…and I don't need another damn shrink. Andy brought me here." He turned away._

_"I have no doubt about that." The newcomer's reply was consoling and wry. _

_Puzzled, Joe turned his head and studied the other man. The stranger was dressed in fatigues, but everyone was. He had a hat pulled low over his head over a buzz cut, and his face was red from sun exposure. He met Joe's stare with an even one of his own._

_He nodded in greeting. "Ian Bancroft." He took off his hat. "And I'm no shrink."_

_He grabbed a chair leaning against the wall next to the cot and sat down._

_Joe wondered what this guy was going to try to sell him. "They keep telling me he was killed."_

_Bancroft nodded. "You're right, Joe. It was Cord that brought you in." He glanced behind him, at the bustle at the other end of the tent. He met Joe's eyes. "And he was…killed in that village."_

"Anyway," the Doctor glared at them both and turned back to Joe. "She's my ship, and she can travel through time and space."

"What are you saying, exactly?" He pushed rational thought to a far distant portion of his mind and went for it. "You can time travel?"

A smile spread across Martha's lips. A grin that showed off an array of very, very white teeth formed on the Doctor's face. Adam smiled a little, in that half-smirking, half-shy way of his.

"Exactly!" the owner of the time ship exclaimed in a voice far too loud for the room's echoing space.

_His earnest expression never changed, but Joe was disgusted. The guy must get his jollies out of screwing with the crazy amputees._

_"Take it somewhere else. I don't need this crap." Joe turned away again. The solid presence of the gun dug into his cheek through the pillow. It was a nice distraction from the phantom pains, and he pressed his cheek more firmly into the pillow. He stared into space and waited for the telltale signs of footsteps as the asshole gave up and left._

_They didn't come. A fisted hand appeared in his line of vision. Below the wrist, on the inside flesh of a tanned arm, was an unusual blue tattoo._

Dawson stared at them blankly for what may have been a minute, though it easily could have been two. A stray thought wandered through his head, wondering about the blue motif in the damnedest places. "So…um…" He shook himself. "How is that possible? It's kind of big for a time machine, isn't it?" All those TV series and movies didn't know the half of it, if a room-ship-needed to be this big in order to work.

_A couple of guys in Joe's platoon had tats. They were daggers or roses with girl's names on banners. Bancroft was into abstract designs._

_Joe spent a moment studying it, but he still didn't have a clue what it was or why he was being shown it. He shrugged. "What the hell is that?"_

_"It's a symbol." Bancroft paused again as he looked around. "It means I belong to an organization called the Watchers."_

"It's bigger on the inside," said Martha.

"Uh-huh. So, what?" Joe asked. "You're from the future, when time travel is possible or something?"

_Again, Joe asked the obvious question. "Watchin' who?"_

_Again, Bancroft looked around. "Those that can't die, like Sergeant Cord."_

"Or something." The Doctor stood absolutely still. Speaking as seriously as Ian Bancroft had all those years ago, he said, "She's from another world. So am I."

Rationality ran back to the fore and started shouting denials in his overwhelmed thoughts. This would be where his entire world changed, again.


End file.
